


Sunset Hours

by Tethys_resort



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Weather, Destruction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fell Winter, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gondolin, Hiking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, My Slashy Valentine, Romance, Snow and Ice, Some Humor, Starting Over, Wilderness Survival, fading, glaurung - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29094639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tethys_resort/pseuds/Tethys_resort
Summary: Loss, death, the dragon, the Fell Winter, and curses.  Tuor and Voronwë walk to Gondolin and not everything is lost.(For trigger warnings, please read the tags.)
Relationships: Tuor/Voronwë (Tolkien)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 6
Collections: 2021 My Slashy Valentine





	Sunset Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tabru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabru/gifts).



> Recipient is okay with a rating up to: R  
> Requested pairing: Tuor/Voronwe (there were more, but this is the one I chose)  
> Story elements: A fic with big "this is the first time I've considered we could be more than friends and I'm freaking out" vibes. Humor, angst, and fluff are always welcome. Person A fretting about Person B is always a fun bonus!  
> Do NOT include: No rape, non-con, or incest.

Everything hurt, and Voronwë’s first few seconds of consciousness were taken up with the burn of salt water being coughed out of his lungs. He gasped and retched, thrashing to get away from the pain and uncertain if it was salt water or blood leaking from his nose. 

A male voice was whispering over his head in Sindarin. “Shh, now. You’re okay. You’re okay.” He managed to open his eyes as the whispering voice continued and gentle hands gathered his hair out of his face. 

His rescuer, or maybe captor, had a beard. A Man. Speaking Sindarin.

Large hands were flipping him over, he was barely aware of the hands tucking him back into blankets. 

Voronwë lost consciousness, his last sensation that of a wet cloth gently cleaning his face.

***

Tuor walked up the shingle exposed under the eroding steps and up the old city streets to the Hall in which he had found Ulmo’s gifts. 

He had been gone longer than he expected but had managed to catch not one but two of the big fish that swam into the rocky ponds at high tide. He had them gutted and strung on a piece of his rope, easier to carry that way when his other hand held one of his rags full of the thumb sized clams he had dug out of the narrow beach. 

His guide from Ulmo was awake again. 

The elf was sitting up and staring blankly about the little camp he had created in the section with an intact ceiling. He watched, silent as always, as Tuor set dinner down and picked up his canvas pail and walked out to empty and refill it at the stream behind the Hall. The elf said nothing, just watching. But then the male hadn’t made a noise since that first night after Ulmo had dropped him on the beach during the storm. 

Tuor hoped he wasn’t fading. 

He remembered Maeiel fading after Nenion had died. Annael had told him that elves, for all their strengths, were not as durable as Men. They shattered easily, often not continuing when the ones they loved died. They had buried Maeiel only a week later, next to the grave of her mate. 

All of the elf’s friends and companions had died in the storm. That couldn’t be good. 

The winds that had come in the wake of the storm had died down enough that he could hear the tiny sounds of the stream over the cobbles of the alley. 

He came back into the hall, and his elf guide was sitting in front of his little stone hearth. All his sparse supply of herbs and seasonings were spread out in a neat array and the elf was carefully stacking and restacking the pile. The elf said, “Do you have salt? And pepper? Or anything in the allium family?” 

“Alliums?” This wasn’t how Tuor had expected his first conversation with his “guide from Ulmo” to go. But it was certainly better than a lot of the possibilities. 

“Garlic or onions or leeks?” There was a flash of a slight smile. “I thought I would cook the greenlings. If you don’t mind?”

“I know what an allium is.” Annael hadn’t neglected his education that badly. “Certainly, you are very welcome to the chore if you want it.” Tuor wasn’t certain how to cook fish other than on a stick. And the larger fish had come out with charred skins and raw insides. The elf seemed experienced, neatly filleting the fish and frying them in the pan from his pack. 

They ate in complete silence, finishing with apples picked from a tree on the edge of the ruins. 

The elf licked the juice off his fingers and said, “I am Voronwë.”

“Tuor.” He paused. “I need to go to Gondolin.”

“No. No, you definitely do not.” 

“Why not?” 

An hour later the sun had set and the discussion had continued. In circles. 

So far Tuor’s “guide to Gondolin” had pointed out all the flaws in the idea, even offering to take the message himself and guide Tuor to someplace the Edain were welcome. The idea of meeting more of the Edain was interesting (Tuor wasn’t certain what his reception would be). But Lord Ulmo had given him this quest. 

“It is Gondolin. The Hidden City. Of Elves. Only Elves.” The elf, Voronwë, looked tired and frustrated, groping to explain. 

“But that is where Ulmo has told me to go. I need to tell King Turgon that is time to leave.” Voronwë sighed, obviously trying to figure out how to say yet again (very politely Tuor had to admit) that Mortals weren’t welcome in the Hidden City of the Noldor and that King Turgon was unlikely to listen to a random Man. 

Tuor popped back up to his feet from where he had sprawled onto his bedroll. “You want proof, right?”

“You have proof? Other than a hauberk, helmet and sword you have stolen from this very hall?” Voronwë sounded slightly outraged and Tuor turned to fish through his pack.

He probably shouldn’t have laughed but the expression on Voronwë’s face was terribly funny when he saw the cloak. Fortunately after a moment of huffing noises, Voronwë started laughing too. 

***

Voronwë was fairly certain he was mad. Or dead, and this was what the Halls actually were: a dream, good or bad, of a life that could have been.

Just away from the coast they had met a group of Sindar who had been willing to give Voronwë some winter clothing and good boots. They told him they were heading south, away from the stain of evil. And away from the dragon that had come from the North and Angband. Voronwë shuddered at the name of the dragon and pushed it away from his mind, he remembered it as a nightmare on a battlefield of fire and death. 

Dream-like to be headed home to Gondolin at last.

Mad in truth, to be walking toward Glaurung, the Great Worm of Angband.

And Tuor was willing to take the risk to deliver his message from Lord Ulmo.

He could walk away, the Sindar had offered him a place with them. He could go to his aunts and uncles who would happily accept him on Balar. 

But Gondolin was in danger, and he was growing to like this Man. He had not met many Edain before, mostly just a few in Cirdan’s settlement at Sirion. He wondered if they were all this stubborn. Tuor had promised to deliver Ulmo’s message and was absolutely determined to do so, even if he had to brave the dragon, or wander off into the Encircling Mountains on his own. 

Maybe it was a matter of honor?

At least the Man was a very competent hunter, adept at setting snares and fishing for the little river fish. 

Tonight there were rabbits, enough for a couple days in the cold air. Tuor had field gutted them and brought them back as Voronwë had set up their tent and started the fire. 

Tuor looked hesitant, “Ah, Voronwë? Do you like cooking all the time? I feel bad making you do the chore, and I can cook, but…” Tuor was obviously uncertain of how to end the statement and stood there awkwardly, rabbits dangling from a stringer clutched in one hand.

Voronwë laughed. “I don’t like cooking so much as all that. But you had so mauled those poor fish before that I was about to go and catch and eat others raw to avoid the mess you made of them.” 

Tuor laughed. “I am better at rabbit, truly.” He hung the rabbits in a nearby tree. “And I did see wild garlic down at the river’s edge, and lamb’s quarters and wild spinach.” The lopsided smile grew and Voronwë realized in a sudden leap of heart that Tuor had become a friend. Wanted to be friends. “I just didn’t know that alliums and fish went together.” Tuor picked up the canvas bucket and walked down toward the stream, smiling as he went. 

Dinner that night was excellent, despite the continuing drizzle of rain, and feeling well fed they lay companionably near each other under the tarp-tent in front of the fire. 

Voronwë glanced over at Tuor. His eyes were brown in some lights, and gray in others. But that night, by the fire, Voronwë realized that they changed with mood. Tonight they were a light hazel, with tiny stripes of green in between a thousand shades of brown. The colors danced as his pupils reflected the glow of the fire. 

“Tuor?” Voronwë settled a little deeper into his bedroll, it was getting chilly. “Would you like to hear a story?”

“Hmm?” Tuor’s eyelids were starting to slip.

“Did you know that there are eleven great Houses of Gondolin?” The best way Voronwë knew of making friends was to offer little gifts and kindnesses. “My father was under the House of Fingolfin, but in Gondolin I was in the House of the King.”

Tuor tucked his head down on his arms, turning to listen in curiosity.

“The other ten are also great Lords. Well, great in power and leadership.” Voronwë grinned and Tuor smiled back tentatively. “Not always great in dignity.”

Tuor snorted but said nothing.

“Now, one of those Houses is the Heavenly Arch. Their Lord is Egalmoth of the many colors, thus his House name.”

“Many colors?” Tuor blinked. “He named his House for colors? What’s a ‘heavenly arch’?”

“Well, his House was named for him. A heavenly arch, you know like appears when the sun passes through the rain?”

“A rainbow? He named his House for a rainbow?” Tuor sounded incredulous. “Lorgan’s Lords all named themselves for monsters to sound more intimidating.”

Voronwë raised an eyebrow and worked on keeping a straight face. “Never say Lord Egalmoth isn’t intimidating. No matter what you wear to banquet, he will always outclass the room in color and fashion. Jewelry like you’ve never seen, layers upon layers. And clothing in every color of Lady Yavanna’s flowers.”

Tuor stared at him in open disbelief, obviously trying to visualize the sight and not laugh in his face. 

Voronwë had fought the Easterlings, and their Lords wore their authority in riches but the House of the Heavenly Arch (and more specifically Lord Egalmoth) was in a class of its own. “One Gates of Summer Feast he wore so much jewelry that as the sun came up King Turgon was forced to shut his eyes against the glare as we sang the sunrise songs.”

“Was the King upset? At being upstaged?” Tuor shuffled a little more comfortably into his blankets, falling into the tale. 

“Oh no, King Turgon was upset when he had to open his eyes to lead the procession and was flash blinded by an especially fine topaz brooch in the middle of Lord Egalmoth’s chest. He misstepped and likely would have caught himself except that Lord Glorfindel and Lord Galdor both attempted to assist.” Voronwë chuckled at the memory. “All three collided, falling over with Lord Galdor squashed underneath and King Turgon’s crown hopelessly caught in Lord Glorfindel’s hair.”

Tuor let out a breathless giggle, suddenly sounding much younger than the grim warrior he had been molded into by hardship. 

“Lord Glorfindel has the most impressive braids, and he is quite vain about them you see.” There had been horrible silence as Lord Glorfindel and King Turgon had yanked at the offending symbol of royalty. Then King Turgon had gripped Lord Glorfindel’s hands where he was desperately trying to untie himself, laid his head over on the Lord’s shoulder and started laughing hysterically. “In the end, Lady Idril had to lead the procession because King Turgon and Lord Glorfindel were tied head to head by the crown and Lord Glorfindel begged that scissors not be involved.”

They both lay there and snickered for a few minutes before Tuor said, “I don’t have any stories of great feasts. But one time, for my name day, Annael decided that we would make sweets. Only, he said we needed honey from a hive of bees that lived in the caves at the northernmost end of the mountains….”

The rain grew a little heavier, and the fire burned down to coals. 

Voronwë listened, satisfied, as Tuor told him a tiny tale of bees, honey and a family of bears. A tiny tale, but Voronwë valued it more than any number of Lord Egalmoth’s famed jewels.

***

Even Tuor could tell that the forest of Nuath was ill, even if he could not have vocalized what was wrong. The spruce and pine were living green, with a thin skim of ice on the upper branches. And who could tell with the naked branches of the oaks and maples?

But the smell of rot hung in the air, under the snow scent and beyond the brisk wind that never stopped. 

At dusk and dawn the naked bushes looked like mounded corpses or the aftermath of a battle. Like Annael’s folk, piled and left. (As he so often did, he hoped most had gotten away. He had not seen their bodies, nor their jewelry with Lorgan’s warriors.) 

Voronwë became more silent, more watchful, and Tuor wondered what he saw. The evening they entered the forest proper, Tuor went to set snares and Voronwë said, “Don’t.”

Voronwë looked around, head swiveling, and he stared at the woods. He was pale and when he didn’t continue Tuor pulled them to sit side by side in the little brush shelter they had made. “Why not? What is wrong here?” Voronwë didn’t answer, and hesitantly Tuor scooted closer so that they leaned together.

They sat in silence a while, watching the snow slowly turn to sleet again. 

“I just want to set snares, maybe shoot some birds.” Tuor tried again, hoping to at least understand the problem. 

“The dragon came here.” The whisper was full of hushed horror and Tuor could feel him shaking slightly. “The very trees are screaming at the defilement and bloodshed. It will be centuries before this land is clean again.”

“If we do not hunt, we will starve.” By his calculations they had one week of food left if they stretched it. 

“I know,” the words were a sad whisper. Very carefully, waiting for a flinch or withdrawal, Tuor pulled Voronwë’s head down onto his shoulder, wrapping him in a hug. Voronwë felt thin and frail even through the layers of sweater and coat and Tuor made a mental note to make sure that the elf was eating enough. 

“I know, we must find food. And the food will probably not be affected by the dragon, not yet. Not like Angband. Only gold and gems are affected at first.” The voice dropped back to a whisper, huddled against him. “But the dragon here, this far west, means we will find no one, not Man or Elf, still alive.”

“Tonight we’ll have jerky and biscuits for dinner.” It would run their food reserves lower, but better that than hunting. Maybe they would travel out of the zone quickly.

That night Voronwë set his bedroll so they lay side by side. He was never certain with his friend, but he thought they both lay in the dark and listened to the storm.

In the morning the sleet had become a day of bright sunshine and melting ice. Tuor pulled the scarf tighter about his face: bright sunshine and wind that cut like a knife through their layers of clothing. 

Voronwë looked across the forest, expression blank and slightly hard. Tuor wondered what compromises the elf was making with himself to continue onward. But Voronwë looked at him and smiled, expression muffled by his scarf. “If we catch the road of Men today we can follow it to the Pools of Ivrin.” 

They set off, continuing east. “Tell me about the Pools of Ivrin?” Tuor smiled under his scarf as Voronwë told him all about hot springs and the healing powers of the Pools. As the elf talked he looked more alive, more present.

***

He was so cold and the day was a sour drizzle, slowly soaking him and chilling him further.

It seemed as though the dragon had rampaged across the landscape almost at random. Some parts were almost untouched, the game alive and the scent of evil a distant memory. In others, the dragon had scarred Arda so deeply that Voronwë wondered if it could ever be cleansed and repaired. 

For example, this tiny settlement of Men. 

Well, he thought probably Men. What he could see of the building remains, the style was Mannish, with the heavy walls and square frames typical of the Edain. It was mostly gone now. 

Tuor was walking through the wet charcoal mud and broken timber. He lifted what looked like a piece of barn door and peered under before dropping it again with a grimace. A tiny puff of dry black dust wafted up, lost in the damp air. “I don’t see any signs of survivors.” 

“Watch your step.” Voronwë could see indents in the debris he suspected were pits, wells or basements. 

“The holes?” Tuor sounded distracted as he walked to the next building – only one large house, a barn, a chicken coop and several smaller outbuildings. “I was hoping to find a basement intact.” He flashed a smile composed of stress and sunshine at Voronwë. “The intact basements of Men contain food and other supplies we can use.” 

The smile grew teeth and true good humor that warmed Voronwë a little. “Unlike Elvish basements, which undoubtedly contain gold, gems and rare spices.”

Voronwë wrinkled his nose in a mock scowl but Tuor’s smile faded as he kicked some pieces of charred roof away at a corner of the house. He muttered, “They knew but couldn’t run for some reason, this is the most secure building and the easiest to defend.” 

He sighed. “Voronwë? Will you help me find some shovels?”

One large hole in the dead vegetable garden, the result of practicality. Each charred, skeletonized corpse carefully arranged, lined up together. Covered again, and carefully mounded over with rocks from their house foundation. It took most of the day but Voronwë couldn’t begrudge Tuor the time. He hoped that passerby would have the mercy to do the same for the Elves who had died when the dragon came. 

Tuor balanced one last rock on the heap and stood and stared blankly at the grave before shaking himself back into the present moment. “I ask Lord Namo to look over these people, whoever they were. May wherever Men go be better than how they left.” 

He sagged and Voronwë patted him on the shoulder before tugging him to sit down in the lengthening shadows. He stared blankly at his filthy hands and Voronwë wondered how much of his heart and soul Tuor had used up in the day’s task. 

“Tuor? Will you sit here and rest? I can go get the supplies we wanted.” They had finally found the basement while looking for shovels. Hidden under the remains of one of the smaller outbuildings and untouched except for the rain and snow. 

They had also found some rope and a small travois, perfect for portaging more supplies as they went deeper into the lands the dragon had befouled. 

It was dark by the time he had made the selections and loaded up the travois. The snow was gone, but except for the occasional rocky or washed out section, it would slide reasonably well over the mud of the foot trail they were following. They could always abandon the thing later. 

Tuor hadn’t moved and Voronwë felt a small shiver of ice run down his spine. He was just totally exhausted, right? Men did not fade, right?

But his skin crawled at the idea of spending the night where the Men had died, and where he and Tuor had moved their bodies and buried them. A fresh grave and the scent of rot and dragon. “Tuor, let’s move on?” Tuor heaved himself upright and automatically picked up his pack and followed after Voronwë as he set off East on the trail, dragging the travois behind.

He got them both a couple of miles, until the moon rose and the filth of dragon faded. Then stopped under the trees on the bank of a little creek. 

Tuor had revived enough that he washed up as Voronwë set up their camp, hissing at the cold water in little nicks and scrapes. But once in his bedroll he fell asleep immediately, disappearing off into the different dreams of Men. 

Voronwë hoped he’d wake up okay with the light of dawn, and listened to his friend snore quietly through the night. 

***

It was getting colder as they moved East around the curve of the mountains. There was sleet the day they had abandoned the travois and it was sleeting again. They had made better time dragging it in rotation but the feeling of the dragon was ever present, an ominous but ephemeral reminder that they were in unfriendly country. The deserted game trails were rocky and occasionally dangerous, but less so than meeting a pack of orcs. 

This was the third homestead. 

Tuor had inspected each flattened and burnt out site, trying to learn more about the forces with the dragon. Voronwë had stood patient each time, but had not joined him or commented.. 

Tuor looked up at Voronwë, standing on a rock on the edge of the homestead’s destroyed orchard. “Are you still okay?” 

Voronwë smiled down at him. “I am okay. I think this one is a little better than the last.” Tuor couldn’t see how, but hurried to finish his inspection. Voronwë always looked a little translucent in these places, as if his soul wished itself away enough that his body started to follow. 

It worried Tuor, that his friend might be suffering by his very decision to continue onward.

So far, the homestead was the same as the previous two (and thankfully not that first): Signs of rapid abandonment, no bodies of Men or animals. One dragon, foot size eight paces (including claws) and walking on all fours. Distance between footsteps almost fifty paces. Scorch marks indicating ability to send flame a horrifying 300 paces. Ground occasionally simply melted in the flame’s path. Traveling with enough orcs that game was scarce and the ground trampled into pressed clay that the sleet simply ran off in rivulets. This one had been burnt last spring but nothing grew in the burn scars of the dragon fire. The more normal looking house fire destruction of a shed to one side was overgrown in a summer harvest of weeds.

The mud stuck to his boots, the cold seeping through the leather. Time to move onward. 

He walked back to the rock. “Shall we?” 

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” Voronwë turned to walk back to the game trail. 

Tuor paused, this was the first Voronwë had said anything about it. “I’m not sure what I am looking for, other than an idea of what is out here.”

“Hmm….” 

Voronwë said nothing more, but that night after dinner he gave Tuor a hopeful smile. “May I do something about your hair? Maybe braid it? The rat’s nest the hat makes of it is a true terror.” The smile grew slightly wicked. “You will frighten even the Great Lords of Gondolin if you wear your hair like that.”

“Um, okay?” He returned the smile. “Or perhaps I should leave it the way it is, in case of orcs?”

Laughing, Voronwë settled in behind him with a comb. Inside, Tuor felt a slight gurgle of true happiness. Tending someone’s hair was the act of a good friend, a harmless intimacy that Tuor had craved with all the other little affections that Annael and the other Elves had bestowed on him as a child. 

He shut his eyes as Voronwë gently worked out the tangles. 

Voronwë very quietly said, “When I saw the dragon, he walked like a brush lizard. The little striped ones with the blue bellies.” Tuor blinked and started to turn, but Voronwë was still combing and his hair yanked.

Voronwë petted the yanked spot and continued on a stubborn knot. “He walked in curves on his toes, head bobbing, and he tasted the air before he blew fire. He was bright gold, gleaming in the sun but carried the darkness with him. Horses went mad and Men and Elves both cowered as he moved toward them.” He paused as Tuor tried to visualize the sight. “No one except the Dwarves could last under the fire and attack. We barely returned to Gondolin.”

Then suddenly. “You study it. Its tracks, its fire, its patterns. Can it be killed?” Tuor tried turning around again, and this time Voronwë let go. 

His friend examined the comb, counted its teeth. “Glaurung was the first, the test and the experiment.” He drew a deep shuddering breath. “At the Nirnaeth Arnoediad there were more, smaller and still voiceless….”

Before Tuor could say anything Voronwë gulped for air and whispered, “And I thought, ‘it could happen in Gondolin’. To my mother and father. To my childhood friends. To the white walls of the City. And so I volunteered to go, to try and beg for help from the Valar. But we failed, we tried for seven years before finally going home because we couldn’t even land to make repairs.” Barely audible he continued, “And then the storm came, our poor ship broke up, and Lord Ulmo dropped only me on the shore.”

A tear dropped onto the comb. “Why?” Tuor could hear all the other why questions behind the one word. 

“I don’t know.” Tuor wished he had a better answer than that. “But I know the first rule of being a hunter is to understand everything you can about what you hunt.” 

Voronwë stared at him, directly into his eyes, weighing and judging the truth. 

Then, he flipped the comb over and over between his fingers and drew a deep breath. “Here, turn around. I want to at least get it braided a little neater before we go to bed.”

That night they settled in to sleep, wrapped up in their own bedrolls but leaning back to back against each other. There was comfort in the gesture and Tuor watched the last dying coals of the tiny fire and wondered how one would hunt and kill a dragon. 

***

Another late autumn storm had come in, blanketing their canvas tent in snow and chilling the air. They had pushed hard through another bad zone despite the snow. They had taken only brief rests, tromping onward even after dark and making a sketchy camp in exhaustion. 

Voronwë could feel Tuor shivering next to him. “Tuor? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Another sigh and then a slightly breathless chuckle. “I’ve survived worse. You should have seen how cold it gets in Mithrim.” 

Tuor sounded exhausted, Men couldn’t withstand day after night after day of cold like this, not without more food than they dared eat and not starve in a few weeks. They shouldn’t have pushed onward like that, but Tuor had done it on his behalf. 

Voronwë tried pulling the blankets higher over both of them, but it didn’t seem to help much. Very carefully he flipped over, waiting to see if Tuor would react. 

Nothing. Just Tuor curling in on himself a little tighter. 

So he shuffled closer, slipping into Tuor’s bedroll and wrapping his arms around his friend. 

Tuor jerked. “What?”

“You are still cold. We can wrap the blankets tighter this way.” Voronwë snuggled up against his back, flipping their bedrolls so that they lay under the doubled layer. His hands were placed such that he could feel Tuor’s heart beating, faint through the layers of jacket and coat. 

Tuor went a little limper, the shivers dying slightly. He sighed, folding his legs so that Voronwë could tuck him closer yet. 

They lay in silence, Tuor growing warmer under Voronwë’s fingers. Tuor said, “Could you, if you don’t mind…” His voice faded and he tried again in a whisper. “Could you tell me a story of Gondolin?”

Unseen by Tuor, Voronwë smiled. “Gondolin is a city of ice and snow, but at Midwinter each year we have a lantern festival.” He leaned in to whisper into the rounded ear closest. “Each year, sculptors make amazing sculptures of ice. Tiny things, that would fit on the palm of your hand. And giant things, even up to full buildings.” 

Tuor snorted. “What would you do with a building of ice?”

“Dance in it of course, or have a feast. They are lit with lanterns so that they glow and shimmer in the dark.” 

Tuor murmured, “That would be pretty.”

“Some people even sleep in them, bundled in furs.” Voronwë continued the tale, spinning it long and slow and listening to Tuor’s breathing slow as he drifted off into a sound sleep. Hopefully dreaming of ice gleaming in the dark. Of feasts and parties. 

Voronwë unclasped one arm from around his sleeping friend and carefully tugged his hat down a little further, finger flicking out to tuck a strand of that beautiful blond hair back around Tuor’s ear. 

The motion turned into a caress down Tuor’s head, lingering under his chin. The skin was soft there, a contrast to the much rougher beard. He stroked the soft skin and the pulse in his friend’s neck, wondering if the hair between Tuor’s legs would be soft and silky, or wiry like his beard. 

Tuor murmured and snuggled backward, and Voronwë yanked his hand away. Tuor didn’t move, and Voronwë tucked his arm back under the blankets and around Tuor’s chest again. 

He shut his eyes with a deep breath. 

What was he doing? 

What was he thinking? 

Voronwë gulped another breath, trying not to thrash away from his feelings or clutch at his sleeping friend for comfort and wake him up again. 

His sleeping love, for comfort.

When had Tuor become so dear? 

Voronwë snuggled up against Tuor’s back and tried to organize his thoughts as they swooped and dove like cliff swallows. It was warm and comforting and he reminded his fingers not to roam. He did allow himself the luxury of burying his nose down onto Tuor’s hatted head, breathing in the musk of slightly unwashed Man. 

A deep breath, breathing in the reality of how important and precious Tuor had become.

Another deep breath to remind himself that Tuor was safe, trusting and asleep in his arms.

Another deep breath to remind himself that Tuor would not soon be parted from him. Even in Gondolin, if it came to the worst the King could execute them both for trespassing. 

Another deep breath to chase away the image of executions with the knowledge that Tuor traveled at Lord Ulmo’s command. His love would be safe. 

This breath came slower, as Voronwë visualized Tuor smiling in the sunshine. In spring or a green summer, not this starving cold. Tuor could have him as a friend, was already his friend. Maybe with time Tuor would consider him as a lover, a mate? 

He could be patient. 

He smiled, drifting off into open eyed dreams. 

***

Voronwë had told him of the hot springs meandering in slow trickles across the landscape. Making little stair-stepping pools in all the shades of blue the world possessed. Of tiny delicate flowers and glades of trees. As Voronwë had spoken, Tuor had visualized the shades of blue he had seen on the coast by Vinyamar. The deep water blue that looked black, the light clear color of the waves – like the cold winter sky. 

Tuor felt half in love with the Pools of Ivrin based on descriptions alone. 

“I think we’ll be able to see it when we crest this ridge. And then from there we leave the mountains for a while.” Voronwë sounded cheerful. The foothills of the mountains were annoyingly oriented perpendicular to their course, so that they forever seemed to be walking either up or down hills. Or searching for crossing points that would not drown them in the streams at the low point of every single valley. 

At least there was no sign of the dragon or his army of orcs. 

“So do you mean that I’ll actual see it? Or that you’ll see it and lament to me about the poor eyesight of Men?” 

Voronwë laughed, it had become an ongoing joke. 

The response was in Voronwë’s best arrogant tone. “Alas for the eyesight of Men that they cannot see dinner waiting in the trees or even a field of hot springs that is miles in diameter!” He shook his head in dismay, the effect rather spoiled by the chuckles that escaped.

The laughter choked off abruptly as Voronwë reached the top of the hill and froze. 

“What is- Oh…” They were looking down into a wasteland. 

The view from the top was spectacular. Tuor could see into the distant plains, thought he could see a distant gray smudge on the horizon that on Voronwë’s sketches was the forest of Brethil. Due east he thought he could see another mountain range, taller and more imposing than the peaks they were currently walking below. Directly below them were the Pools of Ivrin.

Or had been the Pools of Ivrin. The trees and a wide swath of the plains had been reduced to ash. Tuor could see the occasional black spot shining in the sun, the soil melted into a weird sort of glass. The Pools themselves had been reduced to rubble, the water had spilled across the plains, running trenches into the tender soil and forming boggy spots. All of it was under a thick layer of ice uncharacteristic of even the horrible early winter weather they had been hiking through. 

Tuor turned and stared back down the way they’d come. He could very faintly hear the rushing of the ice rimmed stream they had walked over earlier. 

Voronwë sucked in a deep breath and Tuor looked at him, concerned. “The dragon.” They stared down at the Pools. “This was a beautiful and sacred place. This is the revenge of the dragon.”

Tuor clasped his shoulder, absently noting Voronwë leaning into the hold slightly. He didn’t want go down there, into the stench of evil and spoiled beauty.

Voronwë bit his lip hard enough that Tuor could see his teeth denting and bruising his lip. 

“We can go around. Somehow.” He was not going to drag his best friend down there.

The response was resigned. “No choice, not without going back to the coast and up the rivers Narog or Sirion. And that will still take us directly into the lair of Glaurung.” He shuffled his pack on his back, rearranging where the straps fell on his shoulders. “We’ll go across the shortest way, maybe it’ll be better if we can get out onto the plains. 

They cut over and took the actual trail down into the Pools. Tuor thought bitterly that at least with all the trees and scrub burnt away, there were only rocks to hide behind.

Voronwë’s breathing was labored and he had that translucent fading look that always made Tuor’s stomach flop uneasily. 

Out into the flats, the sheer violence of the destruction was appalling. Tuor could only liken it to an landslide, or an avalanche. The trees were snapped off into a charred maze and the pools broken into giant blocks of once lovely jewel-like stone. Now the stones’ creams and pearls were marred and growing rotten smelling slime. Voronwë seemed have lost his usual grace, and Tuor grabbed his arm as he tripped over an exposed tree root. 

He was shaking slightly and on instinct Tuor grabbed his hand. It seemed to help a little, so they walked hand in hand through the desolation. 

It began to snow again. This time with wide, soft clumping flakes that fell with a determination to stick. 

As it got heavier, it was harder to decide where it was safe to walk. But Tuor hoped that it filled the whole little valley, buried it away. Forever preferably. But at least until next spring. 

“Look.” The word was a whisper and Tuor glanced around until focusing on where Voronwë was staring. The figure was just on the other side of the meadow. He was skirting the other way around a meadow turned marsh, ducking under the fallen trees. A Man.

Tuor started to call to them but Voronwë whispered, desperate. “Don’t. Please, please don’t.”

The man seemed injured, or lost, slipping on the ice coated mud until he got to the remains of one of the frozen pools. He clawed at the ice, finally banging on it and screaming. The man’s hands were bloodied, and his screams had the hoarse rasp of someone who has damaged their throat with their screams. A familiar thing to any slave of Lorgan.

Tuor started to move again and Voronwë whispered, “Please, no.” The elf seemed terrified, keeping them both frozen in place under cover. 

The man drew a black hand and a half sword, and Tuor understood. It literally oozed the scent of evil, the scent of still black pools with monsters. Of safety turned on its head and disembowelment of innocent victims it was meant to protect. 

The man screamed again and began to use the sword to hammer at the frozen water in a frenzied rage. 

Tuor’s stomach clenched, his bowels knotting up and bile rising. Nothing good would come of attracting that man’s attention. He turned to Voronwë and in a soundless whisper said, “Come on.”

Voronwë didn’t move, staring in horror at the apparition, flinching with each shriek. 

“Come on. Let’s continue.” He tried tugging on the hand still clenched in his, cold and stiff. Nothing. “Voronwë…”

Tuor’s heart dropped. Voronwë, HIS Voronwë who had continued onward despite the heart injuries of losing his friends to the ocean, was breaking in some way he couldn’t see or fix. The screams were shrill enough that he thought the man across the way wouldn’t notice the return of the dragon, but Tuor still tried to be as quiet and stealthy as possible as he pulled Voronwë toward him. 

Voronwë pitched, off balance, and Tuor wrapped him tightly into a bear hug. Against his chest Tuor could feel Voronwë’s heart fluttering, reminding him of an injured bird. 

After a few minutes he whispered, “If you keep your eyes shut would that help?”

The head against his chest nodded, and Tuor petted him absently before glowering across at the cursed sword and cursed man. “Shut your eyes my friend. Trust me. Let’s go.” Voronwë relaxed slightly against him. “Come my friend, we’ll get out of this place.”

As Voronwë walked arm in arm with him, leaning in trustingly, Tuor realized it should be, “Come my love, we’ll get out of this place.”

***

Even in Gondolin, Voronwë had never seen winter arrive like this. 

The season had arrived in full power and fury as they left the Pools. At least for this storm they had proper shelter in a deep cut in a bluff. It was almost a cave, and the fire and tent kept it warm enough that they could afford to hunker down and wait for better weather. 

Voronwë snickered at himself, he was certain that his father would say something like, “Out on the Ice this would be a balmy day! We would expect both good hunting and a long traverse on a day like this!” He wondered what his father would say of Tuor. 

Tuor had been very quiet the last couple of weeks and a tiny thread of disquiet had wound itself though Voronwë’s heart. 

He had checked, and the Man was getting enough to eat. 

But Tuor was restless, and had wriggled away from Voronwë instead of sleeping peacefully as he had before. And he said nothing was wrong, but he would not look into Voronwë’s eyes and wasn’t smiling as much. 

Best to tackle it head on. 

He sat down next to where Tuor sat to mend a splitting seam in his pack. “Tuor?”

“Hmm?” Tuor was carefully stabbing new holes to replace where the old had ripped out in the leather and had the sinew draped through his mouth, giving him catfish whiskers. 

“Since the Pools you have been too quiet. What is wrong? Did I do something?” 

Tuor stabbed himself in the finger with the awl and yelped. 

Voronwë leaned in to inspect the injury and Tuor upended into a heap of unlooping sinew, needle, awl and pack. Tuor scrabbled to get up, kicking Voronwë and their equipment indiscriminately in a panic. He stopped, still lying in a heap, chest heaving and expression guilty. 

Enough was enough, Voronwë simply splatted down on the bedroll next to him to stare into his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The response was through clenched teeth and hurt. 

“Nothing.” Voronwë sighed and pulled his love and best friend into his arms. “’Nothing’ is you upset enough to stab body parts.

Tuor’s voice cracked as he said, “Let go.”

Voronwë immediately loosened his grip and Tuor said, “No! Please don’t let go.” Voronwë tightened his hug again.

There was an inarticulate noise of panic from Tuor and Voronwë’s heart lurched in pain. He forced the feeling down and hugged his love closer, trying to rock him as they lay there. Tuor’s breathing was ragged in stress but he didn’t struggle, instead creeping to bury his face in Voronwë’s shoulder. 

Very slowly he reached out and petted the tangled blond hair and whispered, “Shh… You’re okay. It’s okay. Whatever’s wrong, I’m right here and will never leave.” 

His words struck correctly somewhere and Tuor went limp against him, snuggling his head deeper. “Do you promise?” The question was tiny and frightened. 

“Yes.” He kissed the top of Tuor’s head and Tuor gasped, wordless.

They lay in silence, curled together, and Voronwë could feel the warmth of Tuor’s body. He was all muscle and hard bone, all soft skin. His voice was a lost whisper. “I’m so sorry Voronwë, I tried not to, but I think I love you. I think I want you.”

Voronwë hugged Tuor with delight, mind and soul reaching out. “Tuor. Tuor, my love. I love you.”

There was a sudden confused silence as Tuor, who had his mouth open to apologize more, gaped at him in disbelief. Voronwë smiled, brushing their noses together and peppering his face with little kisses. “I said. I. Love. You.” 

With a another tiny desperate noise, Tuor rolled them so he was lying on top of Voronwë. This close he could feel Tuor growing hard beneath his trousers. Tuor stared into his eyes, brushing his hair back and cupping his head. With a moan, he leaned the last inches and kissed Voronwë full on the mouth. 

It was a sloppy and desperate kiss, Tuor gasping as they connected and parted and connected again. 

Voronwë managed to pull up Tuor’s shirts and strip them away, exposing a warm chest and a line of wiry hair his hand followed downward over fluttering stomach muscles. 

Tuor reached down and unfastened his trousers, kicking them away to the end of the bedroll before attacking the ties holding Voronwë’s clothing on. Voronwë gasped as his trousers and underclothes were roughly pulled down his legs, exposing him to the cool air of their shelter before he pulled Tuor down on top of him. 

Tuor froze as Voronwë’s hand found his erection and stroked gently, fingers tickling maddeningly at the base of his shaft, then sliding up to the head. Voronwë smiled at his stunned expression and slipped the foreskin down to tease the head with his thumb. Tuor shuddered delightfully above him, the reaction making Voronwë hard. “Yes?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes.” The word was forced out on a gasp as Tuor flexed down into his hand. He smiled as he reached down to touch Voronwë, tentatively at first. Tuor moaned into their kiss and then lowered his head to Voronwë’s chest as they settled into a ragged rhythm of touching and stroking, thrusting into each other’s hands. 

Voronwë lost himself in pleasure, arching up and crying out as he came over his belly and Tuor’s hands. 

Tuor followed immediately after, and they collapsed together to lie limp listening to the wind outside and their pounding hearts. 

“I love you,” Voronwë whispered into Tuor’s ear, licking out and around the soft curve. Tuor kissed his neck and his way up Voronwë’s jaw to his mouth. This kiss was slow, mouths open to allow Voronwë to lick in with his tongue and lightly tease. 

Tuor pulled back slightly, lightening the kisses and moving back down to carefully remove Voronwë’s shirt. He set his head down on Voronwë’s bare chest, fingers caressing along his ribs. 

“Will you take me? Without bonding?” Tuor’s fingers had moved down to stroke at his flanks as he asked, quiet and almost bashful.

Voronwë leaned up enough to look into his eyes. “Yes, if that’s that what you want. Do you know what you are asking?”

Tuor stared up at him soberly. “I love you, I don’t want you to fade and disappear just because I’ve gotten old.”

His heart fluttered sadly but Voronwë still grinned. “I meant, have you been taken before?”

“Oh.” Tuor sounded nonplussed and then started giggling. “Not often, just enough to know I like it.” He rolled off of Voronwë and crouched in front of the contents of his pack. He picked through the medical satchel and then handed a vial to Voronwë before tucking himself down to lie next to him. 

Voronwë looked at it. “Don’t get injured or burnt, I don’t know where we’ll find replacement in the middle of winter.” He scooted up against Tuor’s back, cupping his butt and stroking around to the reviving erection. His free arm he used to pull them together, holding them chest to back so he could kiss the back of Tuor’s neck. 

Tuor stretched out, pushing his rear back and opening his legs. 

He sighed in pleasure as Voronwë caressed around his opening, gently massaging and coaxing. His eyes were shut in bliss, mouth open in limp pleasure. His hands touched himself, long slow strokes down his length and reaching down to gently cup his balls. 

When Voronwë finally pushed a single finger in Tuor moaned in bliss, bringing Voronwë to full hardness again. It was very tight and each thrust of his finger produced more sweet noises. 

It took a very long time before Tuor was open and ready for him. He lined himself up and nipped gently at Tuor’s neck. “Ready?”

In response Tuor pushed back, impaling himself slowly onto Voronwë’s erection. 

He thrust, whispering how sweet Tuor felt, how hot. His hand moved on Tuor slowly. Tuor whimpered and gasped, tightening down hard as he came, pulling Voronwë over as well. 

They lay together panting and warm despite the storm outside their shelter. 

Tuor whispered, “I love you Voronwë,” gasping a little as Voronwë pulled out gently. He didn’t move when Voronwë groped around and found a rag to clean up before settling them together under the blankets. His breathing was growing deeper as he slipped off into a peaceful and trusting sleep. 

Voronwë could feel the hints of emotions bleeding through the physical contact: contentment, safety, love. He kissed the back of Tuor’s neck and pulled the blankets up a little higher. 

Tuor loved him. There would be plenty of time for everything else. 

**Author's Note:**

> And a giant thank you to IgnobleBard for beta reading!


End file.
